


Touch

by RatTale



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A little sweet, A little too sweet, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstanding, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-24 18:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22082461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatTale/pseuds/RatTale
Summary: John Watson’s touch was like a bloom of elation on his skin.Holmes always reacted the same way, his body rushing with a pleasant tingle, his heart rate suddenly spiking to give him a sudden burst of lively energy. Why this was Holmes could never explain, how such a simple thing like touch could make him react so distinctly. But it was not something he'd want to stop anytime soon.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 192





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Прикосновение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22331947) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



John Watson’s touch was like a bloom of elation on his skin.

Holmes couldn’t understand it. He’d had so many acquaintances, from eccentric to dull from strange to beautiful and none had ever had the same profound effect as Watson’s touch could have upon his person. The merest brush could make his skin practically crackle with delight. A handshake, a pat on the arm, a quick hand on the small of his back as they left a train cart. Holmes always reacted the same way, his body rushing with a pleasant tingle, his heart rate suddenly spiking to give him a sudden burst of lively energy. Why this was Holmes could never explain, how such a simple thing like touch could make him react so distinctly.

It became an addiction. Holmes sometimes deliberately forced them into contact, choosing train carts that were a little full, so they were forced to sit together. Picking hiding spots that were a little cramped, to have Watson crowd Holmes against the wall.

From Watson’s end he didn’t seem to notice the effect at all, and his affection and kindness remained steadfast, something for which Holmes was eternally grateful. Those hands could inspire him to take on the Queen’s army without a single thought.

Presently they were seated in Bakerstreet, Watson on the settee reading one of his adventure novels, Holmes in his own chair, smoking his pipe pondering the satisfying conclusion of their latest case. Despite the calmness of the evening, he still felt restless. He stood, a sudden need for something he couldn’t quite place whipping through him.

“Something wrong, Holmes?”

He paused, “No,” he took a few steps, as if to pace, but halted, “Still wondering on the particulars, is all.”

Watson smiled, and looked up, his eyes as warm as his touch, and for a moment the urgent energy faded “Everything was well sorted, I’m sure any finer details will be ironed out by you within the next day or so.”

Holmes smiled and sat down next to him releasing a breath, “Dear Watson,” he turned to look at him, “Your unwavering confidence in me might be seen as a touch of hero-worship.”

Watson laughed, such a rich sound, “Nothing of the sort,” he looked at him, “I am simply stating a fact.”

“It is a good thing I know you are as quick to give criticism as you are a compliment, otherwise I might believe you want something from m – “his words were cut off with a sudden yawn. “Beg pardon.”

For a moment Watson watched him and then patted him on the shoulder. The instant burst of tingles made Holmes almost hum with delight.

“You are tired, rest. I shall wake you before we need to turn in.”

Holmes smiled and closed his eyes, “Thank you, Watson.” He drifted to sleep quite easily. The warmth from his friend the only comfort he required.

 _They were standing quite close, the world subdued and dark around them, creating a soft pocket_ _dimension only for them alone. Holmes leaned a little closer and Watson arms wrapped around his body, pulling him into a warm safe hug. His skin tingled with delight. The feeling of elation rippled over him in waves, making him bury his contended smile into his strong shoulder. Closer still Watson pulled him and Holmes hummed when their bodies pressed tight together. Lifting his head, he smiled down, relishing in the warmth from his friend’s eyes._

_Then Watson kissed him. Holmes did not push him away, did not reel back in surprise. His whole being pushed closer, allowing him to kiss him senseless, his breath and body shuddering at the wonderful contact._

_He kissed and kissed and kissed, wishing they could do so much more-_

Holmes snapped awake. The room was dark, cold, the fire long ago dimmed and dead. His heart pounded, beating against his ribcage as sweat broke out over his skin. He shifted a little and froze, he was rock hard beneath his trousers, straining and eager for…

Holmes jumped up from the settee, his shame overwhelming him in leaps and bounds. How could this be? He’d never before now even had such thoughts towards anyone, least of all his friend! Watson was still asleep on the settee where moments before Holmes had been resting against his shoulder, and dreaming about…

He turned and left the sitting room, closing his bedroom door with as much control as his shaking hands could manage. That dream, was that what he felt? Was that what he wanted from his friend when he touched him?

Was that why he reacted so distinctly?

Holmes pressed his forehead against the door, his hands curling into fists. Tainted! His heart cried. The touch has been tainted! A trust betrayed. A friendship ruined by his… proclivities. Holmes’ heart wrenched at the thought. Watson would leave, good heavens his friend would leave him! Would abandon him should he know.

The very thought sent him almost to his knees, gasping around the shock. “Oh Watson…” he whispered. No further words could form as the sobs choked his voice.

He sat still for the rest of the evening, his mind racing with the horrible scenarios this new predicament could create. He watched the sun rise, heard Mrs. Hudson open windows, listened to Watson enter the sitting room (and Holmes froze), heard his friend finish breakfast, heard him disappear up to his room, speak to Mrs. Hudson and leave out the front door to leave Holmes a shaken sobbing mess.

How was he to handle this? No experience or lesson in his life could have prepared him for this. To have unsavoury, unwanted thoughts towards a man that had completed him so utterly.

He started pacing his room, his body bursting with unwanted nervous energy. He muttered and paced and wondered and desperately tried to find a solution. Hide it? Watson was not very observant, but the man had a knack for spotting men of such proclivities. The talent came with his time spent in the army. Perhaps admit to it and hope that he would stay? The thought was smothered instantly. He could not take such a chance.

At one in the afternoon he found himself in the sitting room on his fifth pipe with an untouched cold pot of tea behind him on the table. The earth-shattering realisation had not dimmed its impact, nor in its potency. He’d only managed to ride the storm without drowning.

So deep in thought he did not notice the familiar tread on the stair, the tell-tale rhythm of the door opening and shutting not even the steady steps approaching him

“Holmes?”

He turned to find his friend standing only a few feet away, his kind face contorted into soft concern, “Are you all right?” he asked, “You seemed a little preoccupied, and this morning I missed you at breakfast.”

How am I supposed to respond? No thoughts, no words, no explanation of any kind could be formed. At a loss, Holmes turned away, hoping his friend would appreciate his need for distance, at least for the time being.

But Watson was never one to back away from any challenge, Holmes should have realised this. He placed a warm hand on Holmes’ shoulder, “My friend, I can see you are distressed, I am here if you need me.”

The touch had the same old effect. A course of delightful tingles whispered through him, making him want to turn to him, pull him closer, hold him close and – no!

“Do _not_ touch me!” he jolted and staggered away, watching Watson’s eyes widen from shock, his brows tighten with concern, but Holmes could not allow this to tear them apart, he couldn’t allow his own ugliness to hurt this friendship! He saw no other way; “Don’t ever touch me again!”

Watson paled. His expression falling slack. Holmes could see the realisation dawn and his heart went cold. He knew.

After a moment Watson looked down. Still staring intently at the floor, he nodded, “Of course.” He said, and stepped away. It tore something out of him, to see him create a distance. Watson swallowed and after a moment straightened, “Forgive me Holmes.”

“Nothing to forgive,” he snapped and stormed away, straight for his room, wishing there could be some solution to this monstrous problem.

For days they barely saw each other, Holmes practically became a hermit, only permitting himself to take food and drink when his body required it. Watson kept a safe distance, making Holmes’ heart only fracture and shatter the more for it. He could not have expected any other sort of outcome. His heart told him differently, quietly weeping at the rejection and ill regard his friend currently had of him.

On the third day he heard commotion upstairs. Distinct shifting of boxes and books. Holmes wondered if his friend was reorganising but quickly dismissed the idea when he heard the distinct thunk of his trunk.

A horrible dread tightened over him. Fear paralyzed his limbs entirely, leaving him limp. He should go to him. Holmes could not let him leave, could not allow him to...

With some effort he stood, pulling his body out of bed and up the stairs with dreary hard steps.

Holmes froze in the doorway. “Watson, what are you doing?”

Watson looked up from the mess in the middle of the room. Everything had been taken down, books, clothes, paintings and other personal items were being wrapped up and placed back into the trunk “You are leaving.” He said, voice low.

Turning away, Watson continued to wrap up a small porcelain doll. “I found a place only a few blocks away,” he said, “If you wish to still visit, I shan’t be too far.”

“Please don’t leave.” The words fell without thought or permission.

Watson kept his eyes on his own hands, “You can barely look at me, you refuse to speak to me. I believe this is for the best.”

“I will learn to control it!” he stepped inside, “Please, Watson I will change!”

And here he smiled, finally standing to look at him, “This is not something you can change, Holmes. It is who you are, and by extension who I am. I cannot expect you to change for something that upsets you so much.”

“I am only upset because I upset you!” he yelled, suddenly angry suddenly energetic, “I knew I hurt you! I knew I wounded you! I pained you… how can I not be upset?”

It seemed instinct, Watson raised a hand and reached for him, but Holmes watched him tighten it back into a fist and place it stubbornly by his side. The sight made him wince, made something bleed inside. “I am not angry at you or bitter or anything else for that matter. It is all right, Holmes. I will still be your friend, should you wish it.”

Holmes pressed his face into his hands, “I wish these damned emotions away.” He said, and took a shuddering breath, “I wish they’d never come into being.”

“It is normal to feel as such.”

Here Holmes laughed, “You have a strange idea of normal, my friend. To feel happiness when you touch me, to yearn it everyday and hope you will hug me before dinner. To yearn for a kiss and even further from a friend should not be considered normal. And yet I feel them.”

A thick silence filled the room. The emotion finally got the better of him and Holmes collapsed on a chair, his heart shaking and beating ferociously in his chest. “I wish they’d never come into being.”

A soft hand touched his shoulder and when Holmes looked up the same warm tingle whispered through him upon laying eyes on his dear Watson. His friend had the queerest expression, of surprise, of uncertainty but laced with hope. He knelt and Holmes watched as he reached with his other hand to touch his face. Holmes barely held back a gasp at the wonderful sensation of skin against skin.

“Watson?” he whispered unable to stop himself from nuzzling into the warm touch.

“Oh, my dear, Holmes.” He said and pressed closer, to allow their foreheads to brush, “My dearest wonderful Holmes.” And he kissed him. It was akin to having a firecracker burst in his chest. His entire body yearned, tingled, burned and ached for more. He pressed closer, unable to hold back a hungry moan when Watson slid a hand into his hair, when he ran another over his cheek to caress his neck, when he shifted his lips and moved _closer_.

When they parted Holmes had to blink away the rush of dizziness. His mind a racing thoroughbred, directionless and wild but still eager for the finish line. He blinked again and found Watson looking at him with the brightest smile, “Watson?” he asked again, still a little confused.

Watson chuckled, “I believe we misunderstood each other, quite spectacularly.”

Holmes thought briefly back to their shared touches and glances shared over weeks and months prior. And then to the moment in the sitting room when he had scolded Watson, when his friend had paled and realisation had dawned…

Holmes smiled, realisation that somehow Holmes knew of _Watson’s_ proclivities. “It seems so my friend.” Finally, he too reached up to touch Watson in turn. And when his friend sighed happily, as if a tingle had run through him, Holmes couldn’t help but kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a thought I wrote out in about a day. Any mistakes are mine and if they're a little OOC, please let me know! 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
